


Kiss The Cook, Man, Or You Don't Get Fed

by Suecue



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-16
Updated: 2002-11-16
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suecue/pseuds/Suecue
Summary: Culinary secrets of the domestic-challenged.





	Kiss The Cook, Man, Or You Don't Get Fed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

Kiss The Cook 

Langly, believing the acrid smell of brunt toast assailed his nose, sat bolt upright in bed. His room, still as dark as a tomb, smelled like stale microwave popcorn; last night's dinner. He'd set it too high. It had burned, really stinking up the place. He dislodged the tiny speck of mush husk wedged between a front tooth and the gum with his tongue. 

He 'poofed' it out of his mouth through puckered lips as he flopped back down upon rumpled pillows. Lazy, lazy, lazy... Now was his chance, and he'd blown two days in a row. He was frittering away his bid for ruling the kitchen nook. 

The mouth-watering thought of syrup-drenched, fluffly buttermilk pancakes, crispy bacon and perfect sunnyside up eggs for breakfast was enough to make him sit back up again. 

Get the lead out, man! It wasn't Frohike cramping his culinary style--not now. He was holding himself back. He had their digs all to himself. So what was his excuse? With the skeptics away, off owing Mulder a little favor, the magic chef was free to cook up an early morning feast fit for the in-house reigning king. 

His friends would never know, as long as he cleaned up after himself. Langly was satisfied to keep it that way. Letting Frohike do his culinary thing, each and every was fine by him. Let Byers gloat whenever a souffle was a star in its own right. 

Fine, Langly conceded. As far as he was concerned, statis quo defrayed tension and contentious feelings of superiority. I'll retain my title as the food preparationally-challenged, he gloated. But, as the song went, 'One is the lonliest number that you'll ever do...' 

When the critics are away...I, the sneaky whipper-upper, come out to play. 

||||||||||||||||| 

One Hour Later... 

Langly removed the balloony chef's hat he would stash away in the back of his bottom drawer, in the bureau where he kept his socks. He kept his apron that shared the same drawer with the hat, on. After he undid the battery of locks, he stepped back from the door. "Took you long enough getting over here, man." 

"Save it, Michael Bolton. You got me in Radio Shack. Needed new coaxial. Triple feeds; dedicated fits." 

"Triple-deds, huh? On sale?" 

"What? You kiddin'. They don't do discount. Ever. Like that's some kind of shock. Mouse pads starting at twelve-ninty-nine plus 'mucho' mula tax? Now what does _that_ tell ya?" The skinny guest crossed his arms over his chest, looking cynical. He took a pot shot at Langly's apron. "Since when are you the cook? Frohike die? Byers get kidnapped by boy scouts?" 

Langly swiped at Kimmy with the hat. "Are you hungry, or are you gonna mouth off until the food's stone cold? I can cook, y'know." 

"What do you think? I'm hungrier than feeding time at the zoo," his fellow hacker taunted. 

"Then shut your mouth and get your skinny butt in here before I change my fried brain about feeding you." 

Kimmy skimmed past his scowling crony. "Okay, okay. Take me to your repas." 

Ten pancakes, six strips of bacon and four incredibly edible sunnyside ups later, Kimmy pushed back from the breakfast nook table. "Hey, Langly, man...you can invite me over for breakfast a lot more often. A whole lot. Where'd you learn to cook like this?" He poured himself another tall glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. 

Langly mopped up more maple syrup with the last fragments of pancake. "In New York. When I lived there for a little while, I decided to take a cooking course at the New York Restaurant School. I lost this stupid bet with my cousin's roommate. Best investment I ever made." 

"Ever think you'd like maybe wanna open your own restaurant some day? Your grub's got it all over Mickey Dee's plastic foodstuffs, f'sure." 

"Nope." Langly smacked his lips, savoring the final essence of the sugary syrup. "Takes goo-ga money to do that." 

"Yeah, but still. Maybe you should...like one day. Think about it. You really can cook, man. No hype." Kimmy picked his plate up and started in licking it clean. 

"Can I get you an after breakfast Milk Bone biscuit, Fido?" Langly sniped. 

"Bow-wow, baby..." Kimmy's grin was glazed. 

Langly raised his eyes to the sated man. "Hey, dude, promise me something." 

"What, like?" 

"Not a word to 'Hike or the narc." 

"They're in the dark about your hidden talents with comestibles?" Langly half shrugged, half smirked right back. Kimmy did smart alecky to perfection. "How come?" 

"'Cos, is why. Just 'cos. Are we cool?" 

"Sure, man. No biggie. Your secret's safe with me." Kimmy eyed Langly, and silently internalized...'Blackmail, baby...blackmail..." 

End


End file.
